A Study in Moustache
by Enid Black
Summary: Six years after their marriage, Sherlock and Joan's life seems as nice as it can be. A mission for Sherlock changes everything, when James Moriarty appears on the scene. (Special mention for Howard Stark and Peggy Carter from Captain America, and Q from James Bond, for their cameos!
1. Of Marriage, University and Phone calls

And here it is, the promised sequel to Code Name ^^...

this is the first chapter, the story takes place six years after their marriage... life seemed as good as it could be, remember? Really, could it last forever?

Regarding the updates, I have some chapters ready but it is a WIP. I count on finishing it but I don't know if I'll manage to keep a fixed timetable ^^... bear with me, please ^^.

And let me know what you think!

* * *

Their life after the marriage didn't differ a lot from the one before. Joan was now Joan Holmes née Watson, when in mission they shared the bed and not only the room, and they were pretty happy together.

Still, it had been only Joan's insistence to respect traditions that had ensured that they didn't indulge in such activities before the wedding.  
After the war, the need for agents was a bit less pressing. Yes, there was the cold war, but Sherlock avoided that kind of work and Joan had started Medicine at University in order to become a doctor. They kept living at 221b Baker Street and Sherlock started solving private cases. They participated in the occasional mission, if Mycroft and Greg asked them very nicely (or, at least as nicely as a Holmes could manage), but they mainly stayed in London. Joan let her hair flow long and wavy in these times, disregarding the severe bun she used to wear before, and Sherlock let her get away with feeding him a bit more often, chuckling from time to time at the mention of aeroplanes.

To the knowledge of their neighbours and acquaintances, they were a normal young couple. They loved each other dearly and it showed even when walking down the street, when Sherlock would take Joan by her arm and stroll with her, maybe while investigating.  
They had talked about having children, and had agreed that it was not the right moment. They were both in their late twenties, and feared that their lifestyle would be detrimental to a child. Besides, Joan had just finished Med school and was working at the practice where her old colleague Sarah (one of the nurses she met during the war) worked, they were as happy as they could be and didn't want anything to change.

This was more or less the situation at 221b Baker Street when a phone call on the recently installed landline disrupted their quiet evening in, on October 6th, 1951. Joan took her eyes off the  
peach she was stitching (trying to make the stitches as good as possible) and Sherlock abandoned his microscope in favour of answering the phone.

"Holmes residence," he said, voice steady, used to the drill.

"Sherlock? It's Mycroft here. Can you come tomorrow morning at 8 at the Diogenes? I have urgency to speak with you." He said, with a tone that promised nothing good to come.

"Tomorrow at 8?" Joan mouthed to him 'I have a shift tomorrow, go alone and then you'll tell me', "fine, I'll be there. No, Joan has a shift tomorrow morning. No problem. She sends her regards.  
Regards to Greg as well." And the phone call was closed.

"Do you think he has a new case for you?" Joan asked, keeping on stitching the peach.

"I fear so. I just hope it's not too boring."

"I just hope it's something quick, I don't really want to be gone from the surgery for long." She retorted. Sherlock shrugged and gave her a quick kiss on her hair before coming back to the microscope.

"Your stitches are already good, why do you keep practicing?"

"Because I can't really see myself embroidering, can you? At least this is useful." Her husband chuckled and Joan stirred and looked at the clock. She put the peach in the fridge to be eaten the following morning (never one to waste food) "It's quite late, I'm going to retire. Are you coming to bed, tonight?" she asked from the kitchen.  
Sherlock looked at her. His brother's tone of voice at the phone had mildly unsettled him. He nodded.

"Give me five minutes and I'll be with you, my dear."

"I'll be waiting for you, husband darling." She said, coquettishly raising her eyebrow, and then disappeared in the bathroom.

Sherlock put all his sliders and the microscope away and left to join his wife. They spent the night making love and resting together, next to each other, savouring those moments, because they knew that if Mycroft had needed to call them at such a late hour, their relatively peaceful life was going to be disrupted.


	2. A new mission and a change of plans

The following morning, at five to eight, Sherlock stepped out of a black car in front of the Diogenes Club and was welcome inside by the always steady butler. He waited for his brother just a few minutes and he was utterly surprised to see Gregory Lestrade, head of the Liaison Office, at his side. This was not a good sign. While he usually saw them together, it seldom happened in their line of work.

"I won't like this, will I?" he asked, when the three men had sat. Greg's lips tightened for a moment and he sighed. Mycroft pushed a file towards his brother and started to speak.

"An ex OSS agent, now member of the CIA, contacted us few days ago. A technology that must be kept secret had been had fallen in the hands of a surviving agent of the H.Y.D.R.A. who had made an appointment with Peter Sherringford, an English chemistry professor who has been studying the chemical reactions that are at the base of this technology. A more extensive report on the subject is included in the file, I'm sure you'll be able to understand it better than me. CIA contacted professor Sherringford, investigating in his contact abroad, and when the professor understood that he was not just a scholar but a Nazi agent, he decided report to us all the communications that had taken place between them and every further progress regarding his studies. He was supposed to leave for America in one month to go and meet with him. The problem is: Professor Sherringford died yesterday night as a result of an accident. During a storm, a branch fell from the tree in front of his house and fell on the roof of his room, hitting him and killing him. As you can understand, we have kept this quiet. He was a confirmed bachelor and didn't have any collaborator. He would have had a liaison officer with medical formation, a man, as he usually didn't like interacting with women, but at this point we have to change our plans."

Sherlock interrupted Mycroft's narration,

"What does it have to do with me?" he asked.

"Open the file, there is a photo of professor Peter Sherringford." *

Sherlock opened the file and his eyes widened. The hair was shorter, he wore glasses and a slight stubble, but may he be damned if they didn't seem twins.

"Yes, this is indeed self-explanatory." He said, tiredly.

"It doesn't hurt that you are an apt chemist too." Greg added.

"Let me sum this up: you want me to take Sherringford's place, go to America in one month and have the meeting with the H.Y.D.R.A. Agent? How long will we be gone and what is the real target of CIA and yours?" he asked, reclining in the seat.

"Only you shall go, Sherlock, and a male Liaison officer. We can't risk your cover sending Joan with you, Sherringford was seldom seen with women, and not one of them has ever been an assistant of his." Sherlock sighed.

"Joan will kill us all, you do realise that, Mycroft."

"Let me handle Joan," said Greg "she's still one of my agents." Sherlock regarded Greg with a very unimpressed glance.

"Is it absolutely necessary? For me to go, I mean." He asked, already knowing the answer.

"I fear it is, brother. You are the only one with the knowledge and the appearance to pass as Professor Sherringford. Not to mention that it is a very delicate situation and I desire it to be handled only by the best."

"Flattering me will never get you anywhere. But, sadly, I can see your point. I'll take the file, let me have the dates and the data… and pray for me as I will have to tell Joan. " Greg cringed. "No, Greg, it has to be me."

That afternoon Joan came back to a strangely quiet flat. Mrs Hudson was outside and Sherlock was looking outside the window, immersed in thought. She entered in the sitting room and hanged her jacket, then turned to him.

"Sherlock? Is everything all right?" she asked. Sherlock turned, startled, and this made Joan's eyebrows knit together. She didn't have the time to ask him more, though, because she was engulfed in his embrace while he kissed her on the mouth. For a moment Joan leaned in the kiss, letting Sherlock control it, but started to slowly get the control and slow it down. Sherlock exhaled against her lips and pecked them again, eyes closed.

"Bad day?" Joan asked. Sherlock put his forehead on Joan's and looked her in the eyes.

"The worst is yet to come." He answered.

"That means I won't like what you are going to tell me, doesn't it?" Joan said, her voice resigned.

"No, you won't. And I don't like telling you. It's a mission. And I have to go without you, not with my approval, I assure you, my dear." Joan closed her eyes and breathed slowly and deeply. She took Sherlock's hand and led him on the couch, where she had him sit down and then sat down against him.

"I won't get angry at you. Just tell me." Sherlock looked at her and told her all about the mission, showing her the relevant data on the file when she needed it. She looked impressed at the resemblance between Sherlock and the professor and her eyebrows furrowed reading the file. "Seems dangerous." She murmured. Her husband kissed her temple.

"You know I don't lie to you. It is. And I don't like going without you. But the mission is important. Today there were both Mycroft and Greg to ask me. There's no time to train someone else." He said, dejected.

"I realise that, Sherlock. It doesn't mean that I have to like it," she seemed to consider something, then, "You have a month before the ETD, right?"

"Correct."

"Well, have Mycroft send here the available footage and vocal records of the professor, if I can't be with you I'll at least make sure you'll be as ready as possible."

"You keep on surprising me, Joan. I'll call Mycroft later and have everything sent for tomorrow." He said, smiling.

"Not now?" she asked, a little breathless as he put his arms around her and moved her limbs so that she straddled him on the couch.

"Not now." He confirmed, a low rumble upon her lips, kissing her "My dear, you really are my conductor of light, I would be blind and lost without you." His lips insisted on hers and Joan whimpered, letting Sherlock distract her, distracting him from the countdown that would then mark their time together.

The following day, Mycroft sent everything they had asked for, Anthea helping them putting the projector together. Joan prepared sandwiches for lunch and they spent the time watching and re-watching the footage, which was not much, and listening to the professor's speech. His accent was a little more typical of the northern part of the country, and Joan assisted Sherlock in learning to speak like that. She took note to find a pair of fake glasses for him, as it took time to get used to wearing them, and to trim his hair too, much to her disappointment. She loved her husband's curls.

On Thursday, just a couple of days after the announcement of the mission, Joan found herself with an unexpectedly free afternoon. Sherlock was at a briefing at MI6, and the day was too mild to go straight to an empty home. Besides, it would be empty enough all too soon, so she decided to go and find those glasses she wanted to take for Sherlock. She went to West End. She had just the right shop in mind: an old friend of hers owned it and she could find just the right item. Entering the shop, the bell above the door made her presence known and she heard a voice calling from the backroom,

"One moment, please, I'm coming!" Joan smiled hearing Molly's voice. "Hello, how may I… Joan!" the young woman called, hurrying beyond the counter and hugging Joan, "I haven't seen you in ages! How are you? I've heard you're married!" she said, in one breath. Joan smiled widely and regarded the woman in front of her.

"Molly Hooper, from nurse to make-up artist! I've been fine, thank you, and yes, I am married, happily too. How are you, sweetie?" she asked.

"Joan, Joan, we definitely have to catch up. I'm fine, still unattached, but I've been so busy with my job that I barely have time to rest! Listen, I have a customer in the back, I'm teaching him how to do his make-up for a play at the Globe, he'll be Puck! Why don't you come and chat a bit with me?" Joan nodded and followed the former-nurse in the back of the shop. What from the outside seemed a small, unimpressive place, had a much larger backroom, where Molly had her warehouse and a make-up station that rivalled with those found in theatres. A young man, no older than twenty, was perched on a stool and she was applying him different shades. She watched mesmerised as his features changed considerably. An idea started in her head. "Come on, Joan Watson, tell me something! For example, who is the man that stole your heart? Do I know him?" Molly looked at her expectantly for a second, then proceeded to apply more shades on the boy's face.

"As a fact, yes, you do know him. I'm Joan Holmes, now." She said. Molly stopped her motions to look at her.

"Holmes like that Holmes? The one that spread terror in the hospital during the war? The same one that made several nurses run away in tears?" she asked, astonished. Joan smiled and let out a chuckle, remembering those days.

"The one and only. You will remember that I was the only one able to make him cooperate… well, he's still cooperating. Sherlock is still a difficult man, but I'm proud to say that I made a honest man out of him." Molly looked at her and her gaze softened seeing her friend's happiness.

"And how long have you been married?"

"In December we have our sixth anniversary." She answered, hiding the pang of pain that hit her chest. He'll probably be still on mission, then.

"Well, you… he courted you when he was your patient?" asked Molly, doing the maths in her head. Joan shook her head.

"He asked for the permission to court me the day he left. And when I was discharged, three months later, he was in London waiting for me. I had him suffer for almost a year, before he proposed me."

"Do tell, I am so busy I have to vicariously live my friends' love stories." She prompted her, changing the shade colour and the brush she used.

"Well, I learnt later that he had been struggling for some time trying to propose to me. And then… we were in a Chinese shop in China town, I had put my eyes on some nice cups and saucers, when, while the shop-keeper kept trying to sell him one of those tacky fortune cats 'as a gift to his wife' and I was almost telling her that I wasn't, he dropped on one knee, took out his mother's engagement ring and… proposed. I was stunned for a second, I could not believe it!" Molly laughed at that and Joan joined her. "Afterwards, we married. We made a very small ceremony, just my sister, his brother, who celebrated, his best man and the housekeeper that has been helping him for almost a decade, a nice woman that is so precious in the house."

"Housekeeper? Is he rich?" she asked.

"We're well off. She's more a sort of aunt, the house we live in has three flats, one is empty, we live at the one upstairs and she has the one downstairs, what with her hip. I try not to have her do a lot in the house, she helps me dusting and so on, but I do the most."

"Wow, it seems a good life." Molly said "I'm so happy for you."

"And you? How did you passed from nurse to genius of the stage?" Molly reddened. "Come on, don't be shy, your name and your shops are on all the newspapers when it comes to successful plays."

"Oh, you know, it was a hobby and then… I came back and I didn't want to work with injured people anymore, I needed a break. A friend of mine was a make-up artist in a small production and asked me to help her, so I went. And basically, I was called more and more often and… I like it. I get to observe the structure of people's faces and change or enhance it. Really, I love it."

"I'm happy you're doing something you like."

"Yeah, me too. And Sarah, have you heard from her?"

"I work with her, actually. She'd the head nurse in the practice I work too. She is fine, married with an ex-soldier and has one daughter. She's two and she's lovely. " Joan smiled.

"Still a nurse, then? I remember you aspiring to be something more." Molly asked, keeping her hand on a very careful stroke of black on the inner part of the cheekbone.

"Not a nurse. Doctor Joan Holmes at your service." She answered. Molly let a squeal.

"I love that in the end everything went well."

Joan nodded even if she knew that it wasn't entirely true. The customer had finished and was happy about the result. He paid Molly and went away, ready for the play. Molly took her time to make a cup of tea and sat next to Joan in the other chair she had in the backroom. Joan sipped her tea a bit, then,

"Anyway, I've come here because I need your help. My husband and I have been involved in a small play, and, as there are not enough men, they asked me to play the part of a young man around 25 years old. Do you think you could teach me how to disguise as one? And, I need a pair of glasses with fake lenses for my husband." Molly smiled cheerful.

"Of course I can. I can do it the first time and then teach you, if you want."

"It would be great. I was thinking about fake moustache, have you anything good?" Molly smiled

"I have a new type of moustache that came yesterday and that really seems true. And I have a lot of glasses with glass-only lenses. Let's finish our tea and I'll show you."  
Joan went back home, that day, with a smile and a pair of glasses she put on Sherlock's face whilst kissing him.

"Had a nice day?" he asked, smiling at seeing his wife in a good mood after those two sombre days.

"Molly Hooper says hello." She answered, nodding, "Do you remember her?" Sherlock nodded "She has the shop where I bought the glasses. I had a nice chat with her, catching up a bit, you know?" her husband smiled.

"My dear, can I distract you from dinner and duty?" he asked playfully, taking off the glasses and placing them on the skull on the mantelpiece. Joan smiled wickedly.

"Darling, you are always distracting me…"

* the picture of professor Sherringford is this one imageshack . us / photo / my-images/89/3rxx. jpg/ (take the spaces off)


	3. A professor and a man

Joan paid attention, from then on, to distract Sherlock when he would ask too many questions. She divided her time in helping Sherlock become Peter Sherringford, the practice, and going to Molly's to learn how to apply the make up on her jaws, eyebrows, nose and chin, so that her face looked more angular.  
She found a pair of moustache that matched her blond hair (a bit darker) and learnt how to apply them:she could pass decently for a young man, that way.  
She knew she would have, in the end, to sacrifice her long hair, but for the time being, she practised with a short wig.

Even bestowing attentions, however, is not always enough to distract a man, especially if he's called Sherlock Holmes.

"My dear, what are you wearing?" he asked, slightly bewildered, coming home earlier than she expected from his latest case, something she'd thought it would keep him busier.  
Joan's eyes widened for a moment, surprised by her husband's voice.. She snatched away hastily the hand she was using to try and put the moustache on, her short wig swaying on her head at her sharp turning towards him. Then she sighed,

"I had hoped to make a surprise out of it," she said, "I had Molly teaching me to put moustache and make up to look like a man, this way I thought I could help you getting… acquainted touching a man, even if it was still me. You read the file, he is definitely homosexual. You need to get his mannerism… I thought it could help." She explained.

Every lie, to be believable, had to be essentially true, that was one of the first lessons Lestrade had given her at the beginning of her training. Sherlock stared at her doubtfully.

"My dear Joan, I would never mistake you for a man… your scent alone is sufficient to let me aware that it's you, and, whatever your clothes, I will always recognize you." Joan looked at him.

"Well, I was trying. It can't hurt, can it? You could teach me how to pass for a a man in the first place, and I can be more convincing and help you out then." She tried. Sherlock gazed at his wife, his eyes stilling on the half applied moustache, then smirked and shook his head.

"I suppose it mightn't hurt, yeah. Ok, let me see what you can do."

"You'll have to give me another half an hour. Relax, there's some tea still hot in the kitchen and Mrs Hudson brought those wonderful cookies of hers. Eat a bit, God knows if you'll eat enough on mission without me." She said, leaving a kiss on his forehead.

"It tickles!" Joan laughed.

"Now you know how I feel when you forget to shave!" she retorted. She went to the bathroom and puffed in relief. Maybe, and just maybe, she had convinced him. And this way she needn't conceal her own little training.  
She needed to be _very_ ready.

"Man up, Joan," she murmured to herself, giggling slightly at the involuntary pun.

The three weeks leading to the departure day passed faster than she thought it would.  
Using the excuse of a distant relative needing her skills as doctor in the North, she took time off the practice and used it to train with Sherlock: she would correct him on the speech, on the movements, and he would tell her how to acquire the true stance and mannerism of a man.  
She blushed at sitting with her legs slightly opened, but she learnt to do it and even figured the right way to bind her chest, even if, luckily for this escapade, she wasn't very curvy.  
Sherlock fought with the glasses, until Joan convinced him to wear them every day to get used to them. When Sherlock was in meeting for the mission with Greg and Mycroft, she would spend the time studying the file again and again.  
She learnt that the assistant of the professor was a doctor. Well, at least that part would be infinitely easy.  
She still had to keep Sherlock _distracted_ every time his suspicions came to light; but, well, that wasn't a con at all, because surely led to some mutual fun.

On his part, Sherlock felt the gnarl of doubt creeping in his mind: something was off with Joan's behaviour but, between the meetings, the training and Joan's own method of distraction, every time he was near to pin point exactly what was that disturbed him, the thought… would just fly away. The weight of the first mission in seven years without his faithful Joan was heavy on his shoulders, making the preparation for it slower and more difficult than it should have been.  
Greg presented him the Liaison Officer, Mike Stamford, an agent and doctor roughly of Joan's age that was decent enough, but that Sherlock knew he could stand only for short periods of time, he couldn't even think of managing to fake an interest in him without wanting to run away screaming murder soon enough.

"Mycroft, this _thing_ will just throw off the whole mission, if I can't have Joan, why can't I go alone?" he asked. It was the twelfth time they had had the same discussion, and Mycroft sighed.

"My dear brother, as you have access to the same information I have access to, you are well aware that that is not possible." Mycroft's expression reminded Sherlock of the one he took on when swallowing something so very bitter, Sherlock himself had caused a similar subtle twisting of the mouth with a prank, when they were younger.  
"Professor Sherringford", Mycroft continued slowly, "was pretty obvious in his preference and the only reason he was never arrested was that he and his partner were subtle enough not to justify a police intervention _and_ that meanwhile we had found him."  
Sherlock merely kept his eyes on Mycroft, unmoving and just slightly frustrated, until Mycroft sighed again and leaned minutely forward in his chair. "It is imperative that you are not alone: it's too dangerous, I will not waver on this." Mycroft's word had the stale rhythm of frequent repetition.  
He understood better than others his brother's hesitation in leaving his wife behind and his reluctance in working with someone new, but they couldn't do otherwise. In the end, Sherlock turned his gaze away, seemed to relent and huffed.

"Well… I had to try." He let out, "Do you have the specifics for my departure? It's in three days if nothing has changed." He said. Mycroft relaxed at the change of topic.

"As a matter of fact, I do have your flight details here." He tapped a small stack of papers at his right. "You will leave from the Stansted airport on November 5th, at 10 am, and you will head to New York. You will stay at Waldorf Astoria hotel in Manhattan and you will wait there for the Liaison Officer, who will come on November 7th. He will bring the details for the mission.. Take the opportunity, in those two days, to familiarise with the city: it is just as big and busy as our London." Sherlock nodded.

"Today's the 2nd. May I take this week-end free? It is acceptable to arrange a final meeting for early morning on Monday, but I would like to spend time with Joan.".

"Of course, little brother. Tell Joan that I'll keep her posted on your behalf and that she's free to come and stay with us for the time being, if she wants.".

"I'll do," The younger Holmes acquiesced. "Bye, Mycroft."

"See you on Monday, Sherlock."

When Sherlock came home that night, Joan was herself. Sherlock smiled at her, discarded his coat and embraced her, keeping her tight, while she combed through his – now shorter – hair.

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"I'm leaving on Monday." He answered, nosing at her hair. "But I have this week-end for us. Only for us. No professor Sherringford and no you dressing like a man. I want to commit these two days to my memory, because I'll need them while I am away."

"And I need to do the same, because being without you will be hard on me too." She murmured, she was determined not to cry and her eyes seemed to listen to her, but her voice cracked nonetheless. "Oh God, Sherlock, come back to me, please." She pleaded. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.

"I want to remember your smell, the way you always seem to smell of disinfectant and orange, and I have grown addicted to it. I want to remember the texture of your skin, your fingers rough for the callouses of the scalpel, of the gun, the smooth flesh of your inner forearm, the alluring curve of your belly and the carved skin on your shoulder." He caressed her face, sliding his fingers on her neck, under the blouse, barely touching the scar on the shoulder. "I want to remember your hair, dark gold silk and wavy and so different from when we first met, when it was tight in a severe bun. I want to remember your eyes, hazel and greens mixing in the sun, and pupils growing so huge they obliterate them when we make love, and I can only see the black hole I fall into every time I let myself get lost in your soul. I want to remember how short you are, how easy it is for me to pick you up," and he did it, he picked her up while she looked at him amazed and enchanted, and went to their bedroom, easing Joan down on the bed and starting peeling off her layers, still talking, his voice low and steady and hypnotic, "how strong you are under these unassuming limbs. I want to remember your laugh, your chuckle, I want to remember your moans," he sucked the point where neck and shoulder met and Joan let out the sound he craved, "I want to remember your sense of humour and your intelligence, I want to remember the awe in your eyes when I solve a case with one of my deductions and I want to remember the fondness in them when we are in our bed cuddling." Joan let herself float, let herself be lulled by his words, while his hand coursed on her skin, igniting it. She managed to get the jacket and the shirt off her husband and they both lost themselves in each other, committing to memory every tiny detail, forbidding for the night the ghost of impending separation.

On Monday morning, Sherlock had everything ready. His suitcase was by the door, beside the professor's coat, different from his own, that would stay at home with his beloved. He was checking the last details and buttoning the jacket, when Joan took his hands.

"Kiss me, my heart," she whispered, "and be lucky and be strong. I'll be waiting for you." She assured him.  
Sherlock took her face between his hands and kissed her deeply.  
Joan stood on her tiptoes and hugged his neck, "I'll miss you," she murmured on his shoulder.

"I'll miss you too." He answered. They untangled from the embrace and Joan took the glasses from the skull, putting them carefully on Sherlock's face. They heard the doorbell ring.

"They're here. Go, now, the sooner you'll be there, the sooner you'll be back." She said, pecking him. Sherlock picked her embroidered tissue (with an unassuming J and H) and said,

"See you soon, my dear."

Joan laughed, an errant tear falling from her right eye.

"See you soon, my heart."

Sherlock took the coat and slipped in his Peter Sherringford persona. The door of 221b closed behind his back and from the window Joan watched him getting into the car and leaving, following the vehicle with until her gaze could follow it.

She allowed herself a moment to be sad, then closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

When she opened them again, she was ready.  
First things first, she took the bag that was hiding in her closet and went to Molly's to have her hair cut short.  
She hadn't told Molly much, but her friend had been keen to help her even without all the details.  
Then, putting a hat on those now short sandy-blonde hair, she went to the MI6 HQ.  
Entering as herself was an easy task, she was well known, and with the brisk weather no one commented on the hat.  
She got into the Ladies' and closed herself in one of the stalls, taking her clothes and putting on her disguise's.  
Then, she stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes (she had gotten quite fast, exercising every day to get faster and faster) and applied make-up and moustache with utter attention. With the hair cut short, the make-up shaping the shadows so that her face appeared more angular, her chest bound and the masculine three-piece, she didn't seem Joan Helsin Holmes anymore: John Hamish Morstan was ready to make his debut.  
She changed her stance, just like Sherlock had taught her to do, standing a bit straighter, the legs held wider, and exited the bathroom: luckily, no one was walking down the hallway.  
She turned her left and approached Lestrade's office, putting her ear near the door to listen to the noises coming from the inside: it seemed that Lestrade was alone, she could hear him muttering by himself.  
She knocked on the door.  
That was it, the moment of the truth.

"Come in," she heard from inside. She pushed the door open and entered at a sustained pace. Greg didn't notice her immediately, his attention on the document he was trying to make sense of, then he raised his eyes, "One moment, I'm finis… who the hell are you? Who let you in?" he questioned, standing up from the chair at a remarkable speed.  
Joan stood silent, letting him come near, "I won't repeat myself, _who are you_?" He asked pointedly.  
Joan extended her hand and in her new practiced voice, an octave lower than her already contralto voice, she answered.

"My name is John Hamish Morstan, nice to meet you."

The name seemed to trigger something in Lestrade's memory and he looked at her, without taking the proffered hand.  
Joan managed to hide the smile that wanted to escape her, instead she took piety of the man: "Come on, Greg," she said with her normal voice, "You don't recognise your own pupil?"  
Greg's eyes widened comically, Joan's shimmered triumphantly. _This can work._

* * *

Author's note

Speaking about the sweet scene, a while ago, starting on this project, I was discussing with NepturnalHarianne that I couldn't help to see Sherlock very affectionate and romantic (in his ways, but still) with Joan and that I tended to see Sherlock and John like less romantic and inclined to sweet gestures... so, while she was beta-ing this chapter, she left this comment. It's none the less the Sherlock/John version of the romantic scene, when Sherlock woos Joan... well, let's say that on the Sherlock/John side, it didn't go that way... NepturnalHarianne depicted perfectly what the difference was: Sherlock sweet-talking JOHN:  
"and he did it, he picked John up- and John screeched like a harpy, brought his knee up and his elbow down and hit Sherlock in two places at once, making his hands lose their grip and their master lose his balance, so that they both ended up on the floor with twin loud thumps.  
"Joooohn! Why did you-"  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Don't do that again, ever!" And he stood up, frowning and military straight, taking a step away  
"Wait, John! Where are you- I was only trying to sweet talk you!"  
"Well, good job of it!"  
Sherlock frowned.  
"Does that mean that you won't have sex with me right now?"  
"Oh, you got it. It's a miracle, isn't it!" Shouted John, rubbing the arm he'd banged falling.  
"But Joooooooooooooohn…!" yes, well, I died laughing when I arrived there and found THAT comment XD So I HAD to share it with you ^^ 


End file.
